reconnection on a sunday night
I find it ironic that I’m a communications major sometimes, considering the problems I have with communicating my feelings. I study and analyze how people communicate. How advertising communicates what we as a society find important. I study phone sex. (I have to do a presentation on phone sex in my Human Communication class in three weeks… I officially love my major even more.) I study how people communicate in video games. My specialty is going to be international communications.
So why can’t I communicate to the person that I trust with everything? Why do I hold back my communication about my feelings? Why can’t I just be honest about how I feel? I mean, fuck, Mark knows everything about me.
I don’t know why I forget this one, simple fact; BDSM can’t exist without a connection.
I grew up in an age of increasing isolation. I grew up with AOL, literally. I had two computers when I was five, I remember my father writing out DOS run commands for me and taping them to my computer desk. I once bid AND WON a Beanie Baby on eBay when I was in middle school. I was more comfortable IMing than having real communications with people. I was in a long term, emotionally abusive relationship where real, true communication was mocked. So was Mark. We were both told in different ways that our feelings don’t matter.
I seem to be an amnesiac when it comes to the important of communication, because when I don’t feel connected with Mark, all my desires to submit fall away like petals from a flower ripped from a bush, fluttering at my feet. I feel flat.
A series of events had me end up at Mark’s apartment last night. I was chained to an old fashioned radiator while He showered. I was blindfolded and was laying in wait for a sound beating last night. It didn’t happen. At the time, I was telling Mark, “You could have hurt me more.” Looking back, I think it was perfect, the amount of pain I took. Mark reads me well.
Last week, I was in bit of a tizzy over the fact that my desire to submit had seemly disappeared. My post last week was an attempt to make myself feel better by reaffirming my place.
It seems like you’re trying to find some comfort in that, reminding yourself what you are. You’re trying to remind yourself what your place is. Mark was IMing me after I made my blog post.
I’m sorry, pet. That’s my job.
So I went last week not doing any slave tasks that I’m allotted to do every day. We’ve figured out that what worked over the summer, isn’t working right now. We are going to revamp my slave tasks.
I craved some sort of punishment for not doing my tasks, but I knew deep down that a heavy session would end badly.
Mark caned me once. A single strike. “There, it’s over now. That’s it. We can put all of this behind us, pet.” He held my naked body and kissed me on the mouth. I needed to remember my place, and in order to do that, I had to let go of the guilt of being a “bad submissive”.
Basically, my angst of the past week was a bottling up of emotions because I didn’t want to hurt Mark’s feelings. I didn’t want to hear myself say I need you or I wish you could spend more time with me, I don’t feel connected. So, I just didn’t say it. Hearing Mark tell me that I should say the truth, even if it hurts, made me feel better.
Anything that makes you feel like you need to pull away. . . that’s something you need to say. Mark said over BlackBerry messenger. Sometimes it’s easier for me to talk in Messenger.
You’re not allowed to suffer alone.
For whatever reason, reading that sentence made something click. BDSM isn’t about one person suffering while the person inflicting pain stands by. It’s a connection between two people, and in a way, they connect through the suffering. I knew that deep down, but like I said– amnesiac sometimes. Somehow, last week, I forgot that.
We cuddled a lot last night. The simple contact of skin to skin, of heat on heat, made me feel so more content. I touched His back, rubbed His tired feet, I sank into His arms in the middle of the night. At one point, we both awoke and realized that we were sleeping apart. Then we promptly moved to cuddle together under the sheets. He held me until I fell asleep. I listened to Him breathing and felt breath on my neck. I fit so well next to Him, my head on His chest. Mmm.
I feel better, renewed. He locked my collar back around my throat and I felt all fuzzy, safe and secure. I feel connected. I just have to remember that feeling connected helps foster communication which means that our relationship can work better.
If anyone would love me the way I am, it’s Mark. My Sir.
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I have a renewed obsession with Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. We listened to it in my writing seminar.
remember when i moved in you? / and the holy dove was moving too / and every breath we drew was hallelujah
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My real name isn’t Delilah. Obviously. But why pick a name like Delilah? I feel like it’s really lame and cheesy, but I’m obsessed with the name because of that song. Yes, THAT SONG.
hey there delilah, what’s it like in new york city?
i’m a thousand miles away, but tonight you look so pretty, yes it’s true.
times square can’t shine as bright as you, i swear it’s true.
Sir hears it all the time in bars when He’s traveling and it makes Him miss me. Now I’m listening to it on my iPod and I miss Him. He sent me flowers last Valentine’s Day with the lyrics on them, a few days after collaring me.
hey there delilah, don’t you worry about the distance. i’m right there if you get lonely, give this song another listen, close your eyes. listen to my voice, it’s my disguise, i’m by your side. oh, it’s what you do to me. . .
